


Our Own Shadow Hides Light

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-27
Updated: 2008-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of Sam, Dean, memories, Castiel, cheeseburgers, and pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Own Shadow Hides Light

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Thank you to [](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/profile)[**smilla02**](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/) for the polishing and hand-holding. Much pie to [](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/profile)[**musesfool**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/) for helping me find a title (which is from Christina Rossetti).
> 
> Set a few weeks after 4x02

The memories hit Dean with a force that knocked the breath out of him. He was only half aware of his own body, but even through the confusion he knew that the floor probably wasn't actually shaking. He knew that he was somehow down on the rug, hands clutching his head. Bright scarlet flashes, dark and bright, sharp burning points in his side, his wrists, his ankle, his thigh, unrelenting.

When the world came back, his head was against Sam's chest, Sam's long arms gripped around him like they were in the ocean and he was trying to keep them both from drowning.

"It's okay, Dean, it's okay, you're not there, you're here, I'm here, it's Sam, it's okay," he was saying, over and over, voice calm as anything but Dean could hear the break beneath it.

"Fuck," Dean said, and pulled himself out of Sam's grip.

They sat on the floor facing each other while Dean scrubbed his fingers through his hair a few times, breathed in and out, willing his heart to stop hammering like that.

"Fuck," he said again, this time with feeling.

"Yeah," said Sam. He didn't ask, are you okay, and hadn't asked that any of the other three times this had happened in the past week.

He hovered, though, the rest of the day, watched and asked if Dean needed anything, checked and re-checked their drug supplies, offered Dean aspirin, downloaded the new Metallica album into iTunes for him. When they gathered themselves to leave for the next job, he tried to carry all the duffel bags out to the car himself. Sam also said he should probably drive.

Dean nixed that idea (because sorry, fuck no, he didn't need Sam to drive).

"You go be research boy, I'll go pick up what we need," Dean said, pulling the car to a stop in front of the library, red brick, white shutters, really freakin' wholesome.

"No way, man," Sam said.

"We're low on salt, and I'm hungry, and we need to find the history of that place, fast." Dean reached across his brother and opened the passenger side door of the Impala. When Sam folded his arms and made a face, Dean made a shooing motion. "Don't look at me like that. Just go!"

"I don't think this is a very good idea."

"Look, you can't…we can't…" Dean leaned back, trying to remember what he wanted to say. He curled his fingers around the familiar grips of the steering wheel. "You can't watch me every single second."

Dean could see it in the way the crease formed between Sam's eyes, the way he stayed still with only one foot out of the car, just looking at Dean. That he thought the flashes would get worse. They were like Sam's visions, backwards. They felt like that one Dean'd had, of the bell at Cold Oak. Slamming into his brain.

"Dude, I'm _hungry_ ," Dean said, and shoved Sam's shoulder.

He saw his brother's expression flicker with annoyance, then go to neutral. Sam ducked out of the car. "See you in an hour."

* * *

Dean ordered two cheeseburgers, fries, sodas, and one slice of cherry pie and one slice of apple.

He stepped around the corner of the diner, and nearly dropped the food when he bumped into Castiel, right in his path like he'd dropped from the sky, or teleported. Today the sun was shining but of course Castiel had placed himself in the shadow the sun cast in the shape of the square little building.

Castiel didn't give way, barely swayed at all as Dean jostled into him. He tilted his head, staring at Dean and shit, Castiel could _stare_. It was freaky, that's what it was.

"Hello, Dean."

"Yeah, hi." Dean started to step around him, and then Castiel moved, more fluidly than he should be able to considering he had a human meat suit, blocking Dean's path.

"What do you want this time?" Dean said, trying to keep his voice neutral as possible. "Is there another seal about to open? If there is, just spill it, tell me where, and then, you know, fly off or whatever it is your people do." Dean lifted the bags of food, mimicking wings.

He'd almost said _fuck off_ instead of _fly off_.

"You've been remembering," Castiel said, voice low and quiet. He kept close to the white wall siding, inched closer to Dean, and what was it with this guy and personal space? Dean drew back, the smell of the fries and burgers making his stomach growl, a sharp, insistent demand. Castiel's eyebrows went up, hearing it.

"It's no big deal," Dean said. He should just turn and walk away. Screw God, screw cryptic messengers, Castiel and his threats and prophecies.

Castiel inhaled, nostrils flaring. "That smells good."

"You can't have any," Dean said.

"The flashes are getting stronger, aren't they." It was a statement, not a question. The wind gusted along the building, pulling at Castiel's trenchcoat and his messy hair; the angel seemed oblivious, as if he couldn't feel it. "Parts of your time in hell are returning to you."

"Like I said, no biggie. Is there a point to this meeting? Or do you just think it's fun to lurk in the shadows and jaw people's ear off?"

The corners of Castiel's mouth turned down; he seemed puzzled by the phrase. He blinked, let out a breath. "When I lifted you out, I removed as much as I could, but a human mind is fragile. I could only do so much."

The words hit Dean's stomach like lead. "Wait. What?" He moved around Castiel, and Castiel turned, keeping his gaze on Dean. "You messed with my head? Sonofabitch."

"To spare you. So you could do God's work."

"You _messed_ with my _head_."

"You don't want those memories, Dean."

Dean clenched and unclenched his fists, knowing that was true but feeling strangely possessive of them now. They were his, even if he didn't really want them. There was already a scar on his shoulder, he was already marked, now Dean figured Castiel had taken a part of his mind, too. "Yeah, well, you could've asked first."

"There's somewhere else you and Sam need to be."

Like he hadn't even heard anything Dean said. He felt the ache in his jaw as it clenched. "We're already on a job."

"More important than the end of the world?" Castiel sounded both stern and achingly patient.

Shit. "Okay, fine, whatever. Where?"

"New Mexico. Capitan. You seem fond of pie," he added. "I've never tried it."

"Do you even need to eat?"

"This body does." Castiel smoothed a hand down the wrinkled, stained coat almost tenderly.

"You mean that corpse."

"I keep it alive."

"So pretty much, without you, the poor bastard's dead."

"Yes." Castiel's voice was flat, regretful. "A casualty of the war. But this flesh is alive and animate as long as I’m here. I feel hunger, I shiver, I sweat, I feel pain. But if you shoot me, I don't die."

"You said some of your brothers fell." Dean almost said, _I'm sorry_ , couldn't quite manage it.

Who knew how angels felt anyway? Was Castiel mourning? He hadn't acted like someone who was grieving, it had been a report of information, a way to convey the high stakes. Or maybe Dean hadn't imagined the thread of sadness underneath his words. There was something sad about Castiel by default anyway, also remote, and fierce, and okay, maybe he did scare Dean. Yet here he was, still talking to the self-righteous bastard instead of walking away.

"How—" he began.

When the memories lunged up at him, he dropped the bags of food, and Dean couldn't see the parking lot or the edge of the diner's shadow or Castiel anymore. Only red-tinged black shapes, shadow forms. Searing heat was unbearable against his face until he was sure his skin was burning off.

Sam was miles away. There was nothing to grab onto.

Thinly, Dean felt the roughness of cement through his jeans and realized he was on his knees, ground rough against his palms, heard his own ragged breathing break through the terrible noises. He surfaced, and for that moment, saw Castiel kneeling, felt his fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Dean. I can take this memory from you. It's one I missed. Let me." His grip lessened. "I won't unless you say _yes_."

They were his, no matter how bad it was, they were his and part of who he was. But it hurt like a motherfucker, the parking lot was fading. The strange sulfur scent and the light mixed with the scent of fries and the blue of Castiel's tie, hanging loose and careless around his neck. Dean kept his eyes on that splash of color.

Because he had work to do, Dean choked out a word. "Yes."

Dean didn't expect, had no idea how this would work, but the part of his mind that wasn't caught back in hell was astonished to feel lips, dry and warm against his. Non-intrusive mouth, curious but remote, like Castiel himself, fingers light against Dean's jaw, fingers brushing his forehead. They felt almost felt tender.

Normal light and sound and normal smells snapped and popped back in, as the touches withdrew. He wasn't shaking like after the other times, didn't feel tapped out and fried to a crisp. Instant, easy, clean.

Fuck.

He discovered he was hunched over, curled into himself.

Dean looked up, saw Castiel, hands at his sides as he knelt, and his eyes, watching Dean, were filled with pity and regret. Turning away quickly, Dean grabbed the bags of food and stood up, thought his knees would buckle under him, but they didn't. They held strong.

Glancing at Castiel again, Dean thought he saw his eyes soften to relief and maybe even gladness.

* * *

When Dean pulled up at the library ten minutes later, Sam was out the main door immediately, print-outs in hand.

"Your cheeseburger got a little squished," Dean said, once Sam was in the Impala. "Sucks to be you."

Sam frowned at the rumpled and grease-stained brown paper bag. "What happened?"

Dean let the silence draw out.

"Dean?" Sam pressed.

"Dropped the food." Dean unwrapped his own cheeseburger. "Oh, baby. Finally." He bit into it. It was cold, but who cared?

They ate, quiet broken by the rustle of paper, the sound of chewing.

"So, uh," Sam said, rummaging in the bag for the last of his fries, and Dean almost laughed, he was trying so hard to sound casual. "You feeling okay now?"

Starting on the pie, Dean glanced sideways at Sam. "Yeah." He cleared his throat.

"Good." Sam didn't sound like thing were good at all; his voice was carefully level but Dean thought he heard the edge underneath, a hint of suspicion.

Maybe he could give Sam something to grab onto. Even if Dean wasn't sure, he could give Sam that. " _Really,_ " he said, meaning it, at least as far down as he could.

"Oh."

They ate their pie.

~end  



End file.
